


Like The Sand Knows The Sea

by moonpiefsn



Category: Glee
Genre: Glee - Freeform, M/M, POV First Person, seblaine, seblaine angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-12
Updated: 2013-03-11
Packaged: 2017-12-05 01:51:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/717484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonpiefsn/pseuds/moonpiefsn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sebastian i madly in love with a certain Blaine Anderson. But of course he can never tell him. And what happens when Blaine meets someone else?</p><p>An AU where Sebastian and Blaine knew each-other before Kurt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like The Sand Knows The Sea

I’m sure that you knew me,  
Like the sand knows the sea  
And a great wave of ecstasy came  
Rushing over me  
We went to your heaven,  
So virgin, so kind  
But yet I was homesick  
For times left behind  
"Chocolate Box Superstar" - Matt Wood

~

Chapter 1  
Not Quite Longing

Lying in bed.

On side, hands under pillow. Pillow is too warm. Flip it over. Waistband itches. Scratch underneath. Flip over. Still too warm. It is summer after all. Kick off blanket. No, too vacant. Pull halfway up chest. Fine.

Not fine.

Blaine.

God.

I roll onto my stomach, and press my face into the pillow. It doesn't help. I'm exhausted and yet I haven't seen the tiniest bit of sleep. It's him. It's so hard to avoid him. Once the thought of his face, smile, voice, has latched onto my brain it won't let go for as long as I can physically bare. What will happen, if I crumble under the weight of horribly unrequited passion? Will I smother myself in this pillow? (which is still too hot). That'd show him. They'd have to find a new head Warbler.

No. No thinking about school. Summer vacation. Rule one of summer vacation, tell everyone about summer vacation. Don't let the idea of school inch its way into your brain for the slightest moment. Enough stress already. No, stress isn't the word. What is it... on the tip of my tongue. Longing? No. Longing is sitting around and waiting for some prince to come. It's more like... frustration. That's the word for it.   
It's mid June. Mom and Dad up and left for New Zealand. Shitty vacation.   
Chose to stay behind, house to myself for three months. No problem.   
Except him.

Without realizing it, I actually manage to drift off. Thank god.

Wake up with a jerk.  
Chest covered in sweat.  
Sheets twisted around my thighs. Nightmare. Blaine, with pale colorless eyes. He breathed fire. Burned me to a crisp.  
Awful. Disturbing doesn't describe it quite right.  
I sigh.   
Lie back in bed for a moment, savoring the silence. Stare at the ceiling.   
Off white paint job. Done when we first got the house. France was better.  
There weren't any Blaines in Paris. Much simpler. Sigh. Can't last too long.   
Have to get up eventually, may as well be now. Sit up, roll out of bed. Too hot for a shirt last night. Boxers only. Better get dressed.  
I glance at the clock on my bedside table. Reads nine am.   
Go into closet, grab blue v-neck, red jeans. pull on shirt quickly.  
Pull on one leg of jeans. Foot twists in fabric. Stumble.   
Fall backwards. Shit. Shoulder hits dresser. Lamp knocks over onto floor.   
Hits waste bin. Papers spew everywhere. Shoulder hurts like hell.

Fuck.

Gonna be an awful day.

Okay. Breathe. In through nose, out through mouth.  
Replace lamp onto dresser, pick up garbage. Successfully put on pants.  
Second time's the charm.  
Stretch out deltoids. Releases pain. Probably will bruise.  
Easy to cover, on the shoulder. I meander out of my room. Walk down hallway, past parent's empty room. Go to cupboard. Retrieve poptart.  
Toss it into toaster. Sit at counter to wait. Smart phone resting on the counter, pick it up. Look at messages. There's two, from Blaine. Why would he text this early?

bored. wanna grab a latte or something.

Typical. Platonic. Casual. Hidden message? Affection? Of course not. I'm desperate.

I read the second one.

going on my own. see you there maybe?

I pocket the phone. Toaster clicks. Grab poptart. Still hot. Take a bite. Too hot. Burns cheek. Spew. Shit.  
Run to sink, grab glass. Turn on water. Dish nozzle still on from last night when I washed the dishes. Sprays in face and onto floor. Slip. Poptart and glass fly.

Smash.

Glass shatters under foot, pastry crumbles on carpet. That'll be a bitch to clean up.  
Feel pain in hand. Look down. Small piece of glass, lodged in heel of my palm. Bleeding profusely. For the love of- need bandaid.

I'll grab breakfast at the Bean.

Wait. Have to wash quick.

That part is easy. I have my morning rituals on auto-pilot.  
Ten minutes to shower, five to dry and fix hair if I hurry. I do. Hair still a bit wet.   
Will have to do for now. 

Keys? Counter. Grab, pocket. Jingles among the seventy-two cents that were already in there. Wallet? In jacket. Pull it out. Phone? Got it.  
Good.  
Walk out door. Point key at car. Flashes, unlocks.  
Jump in. Start up. Drive. The hood is down, blows through my hair. Finally something nice.  
Know the way, easy. Quick drive. Five minutes. Perfect, he'll still be there.  
Pull into a close parking spot, park car. Jump out over door (low enough, makes things convenient.). Saunter up to the door. It jingles. Walk in. The place is bustling with people, per usual.

There he is. At a table in the middle, half eaten scone in hand. Taking a sip of coffee. Medium drip, of course it will be. Don't have to think to know that.   
The distinct color of his eyes, the curl his hair develops when he doesn't gel it, his coffee order. All in the back of my mind. Safe, solitudinous.  
He hears the bell, sees me. Grins. He's been waiting though he won't admit it.  
Of course, our relationship is strictly platonic. Right? Must be.   
I smile back at him. He stands up. Knows I haven't eaten. The gate of my walk, the shadows under my eyes, I'm obviously malnourished and he can tell.

"Hey, I didn't think you'd come."

He says, teeth showing. I smirk. Sounds like me.

"Wouldn't pass it up for the world!"

Affectionate? No. Friends can say that.

We walk up to the counter.

"Medium black, please."

He knows my coffee order. New information. Useful.

"And an apple scone. Thanks."

I add. Awkward silence as the barista rings up my food. Doesn't take too long, thank god. We sit back down.

"So, hows the home alone going?"

He asks, taking a bite of his scone.

I do the same.

"Oh, you know. Watch movies, voice exercises. Typical shit."

He laughs.

"I might've guessed."

Was that funny? No. Forced. He's being courteous. Of course.

The doorbell rings behind me. I am oblivious, but Blaine looks towards the doorway and grins.

"Hey, Kurt!"

My heart stumbles. Of all times, why him? Now? It's my morning. Coffee and scones have always been our thing. Our silent recognition of togetherness. Then a smirk-faced hobbit had to come in and intervene. Blaine met him a few weeks ago.   
The kid was considering transferring schools or something. He'd turned off the idea, or so Blaine told me, but they'd been meeting mornings for coffee. 

Blaine stands, greeting his friend. Friend? Please let him be a friend and nothing more.

"Hi, long time no see!"

Kurt pulls up a chair to our table, sits on it backwards. Is that his thing? Sitting on chairs backwards with his chin (which I assume could serve as a letter opener) on his hands, eyes ogling? 

"What are you two talking about?"

Blaine shrugs.

"Not much. Small talk."

Suddenly our conversation has been abandoned. I'm quiet for the rest of breakfast, save the occasional false laugh, grin, yes or no or "I know right?"  
It's not fair. I can't stand it.

"Hey, I think I'll catch you two later, okay? I've got an unfinished movie at home."

Blaine looks up at me. Concerned. I've never passed on breakfast with him before.

"You okay? You looked tired earlier."

I chuckle. That should throw off his scent. Not saying that I dislike the concern, of course.

"Nah, I'm sure I'll be fine. Catch you later, okay?"

He shrugs, turns back to Kurt. That easy. Part of me wishes he'd insist that I stay, that I invite him to curl up on my couch and watch a chick-flick with the volume turned down and not pay attention to it but his hand will be in mine and by the end as we're falling asleep his hand would trail to the small of my back and then I'd finally find out what he tastes like. He smells like vanilla soap, I know that much.

It's not enough, though.

 

~


End file.
